” A national forest?”
Joni looked at her and smiled.“You really do live a sheltered life. Yes, a national forest. We couldn’t save them, all of them, winter was coming on. Even the Alaska natives were in on it.”
“Well that’s good.”
“I can’t blame you for taking that comment the way you did but when I said “in on it”, I meant in on the logging. They were doing some of the logging, raping their own land.”
Maybelline grimaced a “what”?
“There were wolves. We would call down to them from our tree and they would answer. It was like we were part of their pack, they took us in.” She paused to stem some emotion. “It looked like napalm when they finished, even down to the creeks. We’re pretty sure the wolf pack was killed, shot. They left one old-growth tree—ours. I got sick or sick of it but either way, we couldn’t take it. It was terrible. We left.” Joni looked down at her tennis shoes.
“It sounds so sad,” Maybelline sympathized. After a few seconds she asked “are there many of you, professional tree sitters?”
“I would like to think we’re not needed as much anymore but with the fire clearing, logging for “fire safety” so they say, we’ve picked up again. In answer to your question though, no. We’re a dying or more accurately, an illegal breed. It’s hard for us to fathom but now they have associated loving our wild land, the land of our country, with terrorism. It’s really daring to give a damn these days. What saves us, the trees, is when the communities rally around us like they are here. I really do think we’re going to save your tree.”
“Our tree. It belongs to everyone,” Maybelline corrected. Joni smiled. Maybelline continued her inquiry, grateful to learn more about these young people, risking so much to help her.
“Ever been arrested?” she asked tentatively.
“Oak, not me. Jailed for a week in Montana. We really do not want to get arrested so we try to go legal with everything and we can since Michael’s basically an attorney, knows the ropes so well. Thank God you own the land. What worries us most is people will stop caring or, as Tank said, people will think native plants, trees, are out to get them. The whole fire thing here now…as if manzanita conspires in the middle of the night to burn our houses down. This bullshit is working, most likely because people don’t know their backyards, don’t even know what manzanita is. It’s ridiculous, really, to move to fire country, knowingly, willingly, build your wooden house in it then blame all the wildness for burning your house down. It’s a kind of well, institutionalized stupidity—encouraged, no promoted by the bureaucracy.” She paused. “Oak and I lost a friend, a firefighter. He died protecting stuff. Stuff. Nobody’s life was in danger, no crying baby. He died over stuff. I hope that boat was worth one human life. Better be one goddamned nice boat.” She angrily brushed a tear off her face. “And anyway, we need to let the wildlands burn. It’s part of the natural cycle. Find something fire proof to build houses out of like they do in Mexico, the Mediterranean—adobe, brick, stone. It seems so common sense but there I go thinking again.”
“I’m so sorry about your…I’ve never thought of it like that but you’re right. Tank’s overly dramatic portrayal of that magnificent oak as some kind of murderer, a “fire hazard”. It does seem kind of ridiculous.”
“While the apartment buildings all around it are made of fiberboard, glues, and other flammable crap. Bodacious.” She sighed. “Anyway, so my parents divorced when I was 16, my mother married a guy I don’t like but he loves antiques, had money, from the Bay area. They run a little shop together in Berkeley. My dad died a few years later, cancer, of course. What else? I never made it to law school, just a paralegal program in Berkeley. This is how I met Michael. I was doing research there.” Again as if anticipating Maybelline’s next inquiry, she continued. “And Michael grew up in freaking Berkeley, his parents, Ed and Joanne, were teachers, activists. They’re retired from teaching now. Our parents support us and there are donations…We actually get quite a bit of money. So owing to where we grew up, our parents, there really isn’t anything all that mysterious here.” She took a bite of her sandwich then squinting into the sun, continued, “and yes, my mother knows what I’m doing and no I’m not some rebellious runaway or orphan or shit like that. My mom and I are pretty close and she’s very proud…but Oak and I—” Maybelline waited. Nothing.
“But what?” Maybelline carefully pressed.
“Nothing,” Joni answered.
Maybelline stayed quiet, aware that this young woman had her boundaries, a temper, and a mother she was close to. If Joni wanted to share something personal with her, it would have to be on Joni’s terms. She wouldn’t push it.
“We’re wasting daylight,” Joni said standing up. “There’s a three-hundred year-old organism relying on us to save its life.”
“And a hawk,” Maybelline added.
Chapter 12
Prior to the genocide, the peoples of the Pomo, Wappo, Miwok, and Kotati tribes moved across the land, following the seasons which meant following the plants and wildlife they also sought, respected, co-habitated with. This was the Great Understanding, the harmony before the infantile mutation that was the white man kicked in, leading to the white race obsession—that all and everything that is done by the white race is ultimately for its own gratification, pleasure, “pursuit of happiness”, and they would spare nothing to get it.
After the genocide, the missions, the secularization of the missions, Mexico established Alta California in 1821. A land grant system was set up and in 1841, the 25,000-acre Arboles Costeros rancho was established by Mariano Vallarta. It was held (intact) by descendants of Vallarta until 1900 when it was acquired by the first white American, a businessman out of San Francisco named Reynolds. Thus began the subdivision of the rancho by many white owners—to take a large piece of land that functions like an organism and hack pieces off it, an arm here, a leg there, until pretty soon you’re at the torso, the heart, the final cut. This is what Maybelline’s 2.02 acres was—the last of the torso of the original ranch, the heart, and everybody wanted a shot at the last piece.
By 3:00 in the afternoon, Joni and Maybelline had identified all the landowners up to the present day, meaning to Maybelline. Clear-cut logging started with Reynolds. By the 1960’s, only 1000 acres of the original rancho remained. It was owned by a family named the Stratons who apparently had the last 1000 acres logged. By who? This was what they needed to find out. Bug eyes told them time was up. In keeping with the strange schedules kept by society’s conflicted institutions, they were closing; she and Joni would have to return the next day, this time from 11 to 3. Amused by how inconsistent it was, they were looking at one another, shaking their heads when bug eyes laid a piece of paper in front of them. Her name was Roberta Robsen. She was not only their best county historian, she was also a title agent. Because she was so knowledgeable, credible, she was also in high demand meaning she declined almost every request, “but she won’t decline this one,” he said. “She will be expecting your call.” Joni let loose the biggest smile Maybelline would ever see on her face. “Bingo,” Joni replied. “Bingo,” bug eyes answered, finally smiling at them.
With the biggest piece of the puzzle solved, now they just had to fit the rest of it together meaning trace the path of death of the land to the last remnant on which grew a giant life-giving ecosystem, because one tree is an ecosystem, this one older than all of them combined. After photosynthesizing for 300 years, providing food (acorns) for Native Americans and wildlife, shade and refuge, manifesting yet another act of grace, storing carbon per the bratty human primate’s obsession with their cars, ‘civilized’ society’s way of showing gratitude and respect was to kill it.
Both were anxious to talk to Oak, see how the day had gone. On the way back to the tree, Joni mentioned that unlike their other trees, no name was popping up for it. “Usually, the tree tells us her name,” Joni said, then she mentioned Julia Butterfly Hill and Luna.
“Before our time but definitely inspiration.” When Maybelline said she had only a ‘vague idea’ who Julia Butterfly Hill was, remembered the name from somewhere, “some show”, Joni’s indignant disgust resulted in the release of another one of her sharp arrows.
“That’s right, you lived in a bubble,” Joni jabbed. “Is this why you’re so—”
“A bubble?” Maybelline interjected.
“I don’t understand how you can not know who Julia Butterfly Hill is but then again, you, your generation never really did anything except what benefited you personally. You didn’t do anything for your community, only for yourselves. This is why we’re in the mess we’re in today.”
Because she was generally a nice person, just as Millicent described her, she was unaccustomed to receiving barbs, having to defend herself so she hadn’t developed much skill in this arena. She did know she was growing tired of Joni’s arrogance and judgement. She would have to figure out a way to defend herself against Joni’s jagged edges…
“We certainly did benefit our community,” she countered, a little surprised at herself. “We helped hundreds, more likely thousands, get into their homes, their cars. So you’ve never locked yourself out of anything?”
“That’s right. I think Michael said something about you and your husband running a locksmith business.” She paused. “Did you help them get into their homes and cars for free?” she poked, staring coldly through the windshield of Maybelline’s Jeep, glancing out her window only to look at, for, old-growth trees, something she was conditioned to do almost by reflex. Not giving Maybelline time to answer, she continued, “no, you did it for money. You charged them money in the midst of their panic, inconvenience. Here they are, locked out of their homes, cars, completely helpless and you—”
“Not every one. There were plenty of times we didn’t charge people, actually to the detriment of the business. I can cite many examples. There was the time—”
“It’s not your fault we live in a barbaric system that forces us to do things like this to one another. Capitalism forces us to pervert everything, even humans helping humans. Okay, I will, but for a price. It’s primitive.”
Once again, Maybelline didn’t know how to respond. After a few seconds, she came up with something, not quite sure her motivation. “Have you ever run a small business? Been entirely dependent on your own energy, no help from anyone?” Maybelline asked as they pulled up to the curb.
“Go ahead and call what Michael and I do a “small business” if that works for you,” Joni scoffed, getting out of the car. Still in her car, Maybelline watched a reporter she didn’t recognize stop Joni while someone else was shooting a photo of Oak in the tree. After quickly saying something to the reporter, with her amazing athleticism, deftness, within minutes, Joni joined Oak on the platform. Maybelline watched them kiss…seemed as if everything was fine between them in that moment. Turning her head away, weariness overcame her. For a second she contemplated just driving off and never returning. One of the reporters was now staring at her. Ignoring him, she got out and walked over to the tree. Her chair was set-up so she sat in it, letting out a sigh. Oak dropped to the ground.
“Mom!” He walked behind her chair and massaged her shoulders. “Leave her alone,” he barked at a couple hovering reporters. “She’s tired.”
“She’s tired?” they heard Joni say from on high. Oak ignored her.
“How are you?” he asked, crouching in front of her, his compassion once again touching her.
“Strained,” she replied, part of the reason being she was the recipient of Joni’s bizarre if not hostile behavior much of the day. Did his question include this? Was it about this?
“If you guys are okay, don’t need anything, I’m going to go,” she announced standing up. “Joni can fill you in.”
“We need a name for our tree,” Joni yelled down at them.“We haven’t named her yet.”
“I’ve got a name for her,” Oak announced. “Millibelle. This is what I have been telling them—Millibelle.”
“Washington Millibelle,” Joni added.
“Washington Millibelle,” Maybelline repeated, nodding her head in agreement. “It’s perfect.”
“See?” Oak said, as if this solved everything. Maybelline smiled. She was leaving for the day, was her next response. Oak wrapped his wiry arms around her…A photo of the two of them showed up in the local paper and on multiple social media sites the next day, the captions all making reference in one form or another to the tree sitting son embracing his tree defending mother. Very touching.
Chapter 13
She woke the next morning and after calling Katie, who reported everything was fine, remembered she forgot to make arrangements to pick up Joni so they could continue their scavenger hunt. Then again, there were no calls so she figured it wasn’t an issue. Foregoing her laptop to look at the weather and news on television, upon reaching channel 328, exasperated (speaking of scavenger hunts), she searched her room for the channel guide. “Local news and weather” was on channel 5.
On the screen appeared “breaking news” of Tank and Oak arguing under Washington Millibelle. Turning the television off, she threw on some clothes and headed out. There were reporters and people everywhere. Maybelline recognized Monty Cross, still with camera. Oak and Joni couldn’t be more pleased by the turnout.
“You have not shown anyone, including the county, not that they care because they don’t, one shred of legal proof you have the right to cut down Washington Millibelle,” Oak blasted back into Tank’s giant red face.
“Washington, Washington…Milli…WHAT?” Tank asked.
“We name all our trees because like us, they are unique living organisms, with personalities. We respect those around us who are older, have lived a long time. They hold wisdom, deserve our respect.”
“Washington,” Tank repeated again. “Wheredya’ come up with THAT name?”
“My Pa Pa,” Tamara answered, scrambling into position on the branch. Camera’s clicked.
Oak noticed the name of the tree seemed to disarm, disturb Tank.
“Washington was your grandfather?” Tank nervously queried Tamara.
“Yes,” Tamara answered proudly. “And he loved this tree too.”
Being ever intuitive, Oak pushed. “Why, did you know him?”
Tank looked down at the ground and shook his head, then collecting himself, started-up again.
“I’m just trying to comprehend…You gave a name to a tree. It goes beyond stupid. It’s not a goddamned dog or somethin’,” he growled. “You people really take the cake.”
“The proof, Tank. Until you show us proof,” Oak repeated.
Ignoring Oak, Tank turned around and jammed his giant fat finger into Maybelline’s face. “And I got somethin’ to say to YOU. I don’t know what kind of parent puts her child in danger and asks him to do her bidding for her in this harebrained fashion. A normal parent would want her son to have a good job, maybe even go to college…There is something wrong with you lady. Why don’t you climb that damn tree yourself?”
“In danger?” Oak picked up immediately. “Are we in danger Tank?” Then like the politician he was, Oak ‘announced’ to everyone around them that Tank threatened to kill him at the town hall meeting.
“I never did such a thing you little freak!” Tank bellowed, furious.
“I like to shoot hippie birds out of trees? Isn’t this how you put it? Who was there?” Oak queried the group, now numbering about 50 people. A few hands went up, comments were made. Monty Cross moved in closer.
“It was a joke and you know it. Only a moron would threaten murder in front of a crowd of people and I am not—”
“Case made!” Oak finished, inducing most of the group around them to laugh and clap. Completely exasperated, Tank stomped off.
“The proof, sir!” Oak yelled after him. “Show us the proof!” The reporters followed Tank like a swarm of determined mosquitoes. After
Tank left, almost the entire group cheered. Oak noticed a few young men milling around that didn’t, one of them spit chewing tobacco at the base of Washington Millibelle. He would make sure Monty got a photo of them but before he could get to Monty, they had disappeared.
Not surprisingly, from then on, Joni ditched Maybelline, leaving to do her research on foot, riding their old mountain bike, taking the bus, or in some cases, driving the van though Joni hated to leave Oak without it in case something happened. They were now parking it at least a tenth of a mile or more from the tree to deter any vandalism…It had happened before—slashed tires, dog shit thrown on the windshield/door handles, spray paint, nasty notes. Even if Joni drove it to the sprawling county offices, she still parked it in a nearby neighborhood.
Feeling frozen-out, Maybelline was frustrated by Joni’s lack of communication regarding if she was finding anything…and Oak wasn’t saying much either; but they had a system, apparently a good one so Maybelline waited patiently, tried to stay out of the way. After a few days, things died down at the tree nobody really knowing what was going on with Tank but as Oak predicted, it was likely the family was desperately running down the real, imagined, or fabricated legal paperwork.
Despite not wanting to be, Maybelline was a bit of a celebrity at this point so when she showed up at the tree, a few of the people milling around milled’ her way, thankfully all pleasant and supportive. She caught herself enjoying it, the chatting, including to a couple of nice reporters. She kept up the game about Oak being her son (it was too late now). She bought ice cream for the Acorn Gang, kept Oak and Joni restocked with supplies, and even ran a few errands for them (like to the post office. Per their strategy, they were communicating with their contacts mostly through snail mail).
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